Page 61 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
Nick studies me, and I’m actually pleased to see no sympathy in his eyes. They’re just blank. The exact opposite of what I expected. I’ve only told one other person this, and she started crying and tried to suffocate me with hugs.
I was at an alumni admissions interview for Wilton University. The alumni interviewing me was a philanthropic woman, who was wealthy from old money. I knew that if I aced my interview, she would put in a good word for me, and it’d hold a lot of clout in the acceptance process.
So, I sucked it up and told her my sob story. I gave her the Hillary Swank, Oscar winning, tearjerker truth about how my parents never wanted me; my dad had me running drugs at five years old; and my mom just up and left me with a baby to take care of when I was eight years old, had no clue what I was doing, and had to beg the drug addicted woman next door for some help.
Then, I told the story of how, despite it all, I had straight As in high school, a full-time job, an Ivy league dream, stars in my eyes and all the other redemptive, inner city kid goes to college, becomes the president of the world or whatever fantastical, uplifting story elements she wanted to hear.
I gave her the inspiring story at the end, and I told her everything I was doing was for Mina, which was the biggest truth of them all, and the lady just bawled.
She straight up bawled into my shoulder, and I had to comfort her for the greater part of half an hour until she straightened up and said, “I’m so sorry that happened to you, honey. You’re so strong to have survived all of that.”
And her eyes?
They were so full of pity, I wanted to vomit. To scrub it off of my skin and scream, “I don’t need your pity. I just need Mina!”
Yeah, it was great that she cared enough to cry for me, but that wasn’t what I needed or wanted. I was a kid making decisions on behalf of another kid, and never for a second did I ever feel like I knew what I was doing.
I wanted someone to tell me what to do. I needed confirmation that the path I was taking was the right one. I didn’t get that confirmation, but I did get her pity and, later, an acceptance into Wilton.
And after that, I’ve never wanted to tell anyone about this again. But when I look Nick and the way he takes in my words without judgment or even a reaction, I feel like my pain and my past are completely normal. Nothing worth reacting over.
I don’t feel like the fragile doll the Wilton alumni made me out to be, nor do I feel like the villain I often convince myself that I am. I just feel… normal. And despite my initial reluctance, I realize that I don’t actually mind talking about my past. It’s almost cathartic.
Even if I was pressured into revealing everything.
Nick angles his head slightly to the side and studies me. “Trafficking drugs is dangerous. How the Hell are you still alive?”
“A lot of it is luck. But my dad also sent me to his longtime clients, who, for the most part, never gave him trouble in the past and were unlikely to do so in the future. Most of the clients just left me alone, because the system was working and I was just a kid at the time. So long as I was alive, their supply wasn’t getting cut off.”
He nods, and I expect him to make a comment about what I said when he admits, “I already decided that I was going to let you stay before you walked through the door.”
My jaw drops. “Then why did I have to tell you all of this?”
He shrugs casually, as if I didn’t just bare myself to him for no reason. “I wanted you to know that I know about Mina, and I wanted to know more about you.”
My lips part in surprise, and I don’t reply to his words, because I don’t even know what to make of them. The second half would almost be cute if it wasn’t preceded by a vague—perhaps threatening—comment about the person I love most in this world.
And the saddest part?
With his arms on either side of me, his face close to mine, and the scent of his masculinity wrapped around me, that’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Bitterness is like cancer.
It eats upon the host.
But anger is like fire.
It burns it all clean.
Person
“We’re leaving,” Nick says suddenly after removing his hands from the kitchen island counter and standing upright.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He turns back and stares at me. After a while, he finally says, “You’ll see when we get there.”
